


Carry On

by fuchsiaring



Series: The Final Problem Ficlets [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Introspection, POV John Watson, Season/Series 04, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 16:56:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10416765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuchsiaring/pseuds/fuchsiaring
Summary: A request from pioneering and WatsonHolmes221B for another rewrite of the elimination scene from John's POV.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pioneering](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pioneering/gifts), [WatsonHolmes221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatsonHolmes221B/gifts).



It’s been a while since John Watson called himself a soldier.  He’s always been one, but other things had come first.  He’s been a husband and a father, a doctor and a blogger, but not a soldier.  It had lingered at the back of his mind, an elemental part of who he is that he’s been denying, putting aside, and pretending to forget.

He hasn’t forgotten it for an instant.

John remembers how to be a soldier.  He doesn’t know how to be a husband or a father, he doesn’t remember how to be a flatmate or a friend, but he knows how to be a soldier.  He stands straight and his heart turns to stone as he follows Sherlock through room after room of twisted puzzles that must be a joke.  There’s nothing funny about it, but John can’t believe this is real, that this is actually happening in real life.

Sherlock Holmes is a complete madman, but even he can’t possibly have a  _ secret sister  _ intelligent enough to  _ reprogram people _ in one conversation.  But here they are, dozens of meters underground, listening to Eurus’ voice over a tinny speaker and letting her lead them through some kind of tortuous maze of games designed to make them lose.  John grits his teeth and bears it.  He swallows down his outrage and disbelief because now’s not the time.  Later, he’ll sit in the dark and drink more than he should and tell himself it’s not a problem, but right now he keeps a stiff upper lip and carries on like the soldier he used to be.

Like the soldier he is.

But he can’t kill the governor when it’s time.  He doesn’t want that blood on his hands, and an innocent woman dies because he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger.  It wouldn’t have been the first time John had killed a man, and it wouldn’t have been the first time someone died because of his choices.  But it never gets any easier.  So he keeps his breath steady, keeps his chin up, and lets the injustice of it all drive him forward.  It can break him later.  Right now, he marches on.

He stands straight and tall and when all three Garridebs fall to their deaths, when Sherlock reminds him not to slump under the pressure.

“Soldiers today.”  John knows Sherlock is right.  So he keeps it together while he listens to Sherlock tell Molly Hooper he loves her.  He bows his head and closes his eyes because something in his chest feels like it’s going to shred apart and he refuses to let it.  Now’s not the time.  He wonders when it will be time as he tries to move on.

But Sherlock throws a tantrum like John has never seen him do, and now it’s John’s turn to remind him.  Sherlock isn’t a soldier, and John knows it.

“But you have got to keep it together,” he says, even though all of them are centimeters away from crumbling.  So John helps Sherlock to his feet and follows him into the next room with breath that’s only steady because he’s forcing it to be.  The room is empty, but it’s not.  Sherlock’s still got the gun, and as soon as his bloody secret sister points it out, John knows what’s coming next.

“It’s an elimination round.”

John’s not holding the pistol, but he might as well be for how hard he’s thinking about it.  He’s had a gun in his hand, or tucked into the back of his waistband, and it mattered less than the gun in Sherlock’s hand matters now.  There are three men in this room, two of them smarter than anyone could imagine, and all three of them are thinking about that gun—about the single bullet that’s left that is going to kill someone in this room by Sherlock’s hand.

_ ‘Why are we doing this?’ _ John wonders.  They’re letting Sherlock’s fucking secret sister (he can’t let it go;  _ a secret sister _ ) lead them through this stupid game, but why?  There has to be another way out of this, another way to get that little girl back on the phone and fix this whole bloody mess they’ve been dragged into.  He doesn’t say anything, because he knows it will never work.  If Eurus Holmes is as smart as Mycroft says she is (and apparently she is, if she  _ reprogrammed  _ Moriarty—God, this is unbelievable) they’ll never get out of it without playing along.

And if it comes down to it, one of them is going to have to die.  For this stupid bloody game.  To save this little girl because God damn it John isn’t going to let another innocent person die today.

But when Mycroft says “I’m sorry, Doctor Watson,” John manages to be surprised.

“Make your goodbyes and shoot him.” For just a beat, the room is filled with an eerie sort of tension, because three men in this together have just become two against one.  John isn’t sure who is on which side.  “Shoot him!”

“What?” John has to ask, because even now there’s a spark of indignation in his chest at the idea of having that gun turned on him.  In the hand of his best friend.

Mycroft explains himself, but he won’t look at John while he does it.  He won’t give John the fucking courtesy of looking him in the eye while he condemns him to death.  John has absolutely no doubt that Mycroft has made decisions that have gotten people killed, but he was sick when the governor’s blood was splattered across the walls.  John has to remind himself that a visceral reaction to suicide isn’t weakness.  But now Mycroft is telling Sherlock they don’t need to discuss John’s death.

“Do I get a say in this?” John asks, because he should at least be allowed the chance to speak.  He should be allowed to say that he doesn’t want to die like this.  Another place, another time, another way, maybe.  But not here, trapped underground by Sherlock’s mental sister with Sherlock holding the gun.  He doesn’t want his blood on Sherlock’s hands.

“Today, we are soldiers,” Mycroft says, with no small dose of contempt.  “Soldiers die for their country.  I regret, Doctor Watson, that privilege is now yours.”

John grinds his teeth together because those are his words being turned on him, because there’s no arguing with facts.  Mycroft had said it straight—whatever came next, whatever bloody puzzle Eurus threw at them, it wouldn’t be about what was right or what was just.  It wouldn’t be about protecting the innocent or doing what was fair.  It would be about ruthless logic and savage truth, about finding the answers to questions John doesn’t even want to hear.  John is a soldier, but he knows when it’s time to surrender.

“Shit.” His voice is too soft, just a bit weak.  The voice of a man who has resigned.  “He’s right.  He is, in fact, right.”  John bounces on the balls of his feet, clenching his trembling left hand into a fist at his side as he stands at attention.

“Make it swift.”

Please, God, if John’s death is anything, let it be swift.  He doesn’t want to stand, staring down the barrel of a gun, watching Sherlock shake with hesitation.  He wants Sherlock to turn to him right now, take aim, and pull the fucking trigger faster than any of them can blink.  Just get it over with.  Let it happen and be done with all the bloody waiting.

But Sherlock is looking at the floor, and that gives John too much time to think.

Too much time to think about Rosie, back in London with Mrs. Hudson.  Maybe John didn’t know how to be a father, but he had wanted to give it a shot—had expected he’d get the chance.  And wasn’t that the way it always went?  He took things for granted, and thought there would be time.  He thought he’d get another chance to make it right.

He thought he’d get a chance to stop texting the girl on the bus (before he’d found out that she was just another psychopath after Sherlock Holmes).  He thought he’d get a chance to make things right with Mary (before he’d found out her past wasn’t as far behind her as they thought).  He thought he’d get a chance to say those things he hadn’t said before Sherlock stepped off a bloody roof (before he’d found out Sherlock was off playing secret agent somewhere in Eastern Europe).

God, things had gotten  _ fucked _ , hadn’t they?

Mycroft is throwing insults like darts, but John’s not listening.  He doesn’t care what Mycroft Holmes says about him, not now.  Sherlock’s a target too, but John bites his lips and holds his tongue.  He can’t believe he’s doing it, but he lets Mycroft speak.  Once, a long time ago, John had clocked the Chief Superintendent of New Scotland Yard for calling Sherlock ‘a bit of a weirdo,’ but now he lets Mycroft call him pathetic and say he’s always hated him.  Because if that’s what Sherlock needs to make this decision, to prove Mycroft wrong, so be it.

“Please, for God’s sake, just… stop it.”  Sherlock sounds tired, and that makes John look up.  There’s pain in his voice, regret, muted anguish.  It’s smothered, pushed down deep, but it’s there when Sherlock turns the gun on his brother.

As he always is, John is left surprised.  Bloody Holmeses and their stupid games.  Even now, when Sherlock has a gun in his hand and is trying to decide who to kill, Mycroft is nudging pawns around on a chessboard, manipulating and planning to get what he wants.  But this time Mycroft is wrong.  He was right before, when he said they needed brainpower, not sentiment.  John usually thought that was bollocks, because as much as they liked to pretend, no one can be emotionless.  Not even Mycroft Holmes.

But today they are soldiers.

Today they need to make the decision for the greater good.  For that little girl on the plane, for the people that will die if she doesn’t land it.  Because Mycroft will help Sherlock make the best decision.  Maybe not the right one, but the best one.

“I won’t allow this,” he says, stepping closer to the aim of a gun than anyone in their right mind would.  Any time a gun is in Sherlock’s hand, any notion of gun safety flings itself out the window with abandon.  This time is no different, so John steps between Sherlock and his brother, hands out like that could stop a bullet if Sherlock decides to pull the trigger.

“This is my fault.” Mycroft is frank, but serious.  He isn’t trying to manipulate anyone now.  “Moriarty.”

And then Mycroft is confessing to a crime John had never expected.  God, how had he been so stupid?  Mycroft sold his own damn brother out to Moriarty years ago, why the Hell is John surprised that he’d handed Sherlock’s worst enemy to his  _ secret sister _ on a silver platter?  John has to take a step back.  Not just in shock, but because, maybe, Mycroft deserves that stupid bullet.  Earlier, with the Garridebs, Eurus had made a point that an innocent life isn’t worth more than a guilty one, but right now John feels like Mycroft is guilty.

John remembers what being shot feels like; it’s not a pain he can forget.  At one time, John had thought he would never wish that pain on anyone.  He hopes it takes Mycroft a while to bleed out.  The look on Sherlock’s face as his finger curls around the trigger makes John think that maybe it’s a bit mutual.

“Five minutes,” Sherlock hisses.  “It took her just five minutes to do all this to us.”

He looks to John, a tightness in his gaze that makes John’s blood run cold.  There’s something steely in those silver eyes, an agony that strikes through the air and stings in John’s chest.  Something is wrong and John knows it, but God help him, he has no idea what it is.  As John stares at Sherlock from across this barren room so far underground, he can see that brilliant mind working, making a decision.  And whatever it is, it’s making Sherlock struggle to keep it together.  His jaw is clenched and his expression is twitching around the edges of despair, his composure only inches from shattering around him as he drops the gun and turns away.

“Not on my watch.”

Sherlock pushes the muzzle of the gun up against his chin, and John’s heart stops in his chest.  It must do, because John can’t feel it anymore.  Can’t feel anything.  He can’t feel his legs, or the way his lungs work in his chest.  His hands are numb, and his ears start to ring.  Somewhere past the radio static that’s filling John’s head, he hears Sherlock start to count.

No, he can’t.  Sherlock can’t die down here, John won’t let him.  He’s got to take the gun and shoot himself if he has to, if that’s what it takes to end this and get Sherlock out alive.  And Sherlock  _ has _ to get out alive, whether John walks out or not.  John can waste away down here in this dungeon for all he cares, but Sherlock Holmes has to live.  John can’t lose him again.

If Sherlock uses that last bullet on himself, how will John follow him?  Because he can’t stay behind.  He lost Sherlock once, he won’t survive losing him again.  If Sherlock blows himself away down here, John will crumble to bits—just like he did when he thought Sherlock had thrown himself off a building and plummeted to his death.

Still, after so long, the memory of finding Sherlock’s body (bloodied and still warm even though there was no pulse in his wrist, even though those pale eyes were so vacant, even though that brilliant mind had gone dark) left John cold.  It makes him feel sick, and now, as he watches Sherlock stand stock still and count down to his own death, John’s vision starts to go blurry around the edges.

It’s going to happen again.  He’s watching Sherlock teetering on the edge of suicide and he’s not going to be able to stop it, because he can’t move.

John doesn’t freeze up.  Never has.  Under pressure, John takes action.  When no one else can, John makes a move.  He throws a punch or shoots a cabbie or flings himself into danger, whatever it takes.  Watching Sherlock count, John’s not sure if he’s going to be sick or pass out.  Sherlock is down to four when he feels a tiny prick at the back of his neck.  It’s just enough to jolt him out of his panic, and he reaches around to his nape to find a tiny dart.

As his vision blurs, John sees Sherlock sway on his feet and crumple to the ground.  John’s ears are ringing.  Was there a gunshot?  He isn’t sure.  There was no spray of blood.  Or was there?

Before he can figure it out, the world goes black.

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of the most challenging writing prompts anyone has ever given me; I was working off someone else's work, but I had almost nothing to work with. I had to watch the scene so many times for reference. I never want to see it again lol  
> Come visit me on tumblr at fuchsiaringfic.tumblr.com. I'd love to hear your feedback!


End file.
